~ Trumped ~

​This wasn’t how Brian and Abi had planned to be conveyed to their Manhattan hotel when the QE2 arrived in New York. They had originally booked a limousine to whisk them off to the Waldorf Astoria, but the travel agency had cancelled the limo at the last minute without explanation. What they were offered instead was a luxury coach trip to a popular riverside restaurant, where they and the other passengers could enjoy an al fresco lunch before being dropped off at their respective hotels. While they were disappointed about the limo, the prospect of a relaxing lunch in the June sunshine on terra firma after a week at sea sounded inviting. Anyway, they didn’t really have much choice in the matter.

They were on the coach now, waiting for it to set off. On the coach also were two of the travel agency representatives – the tall, dyed blonde fortysomething, whose face had seen better days, and the smaller, darker, younger, mouthy American women. Brian had watched the pair of them strutting about the ship, always with a coterie of passengers in tow to buy them drinks and generally adore them. Like minor fucking celebrities, he had frequently remarked to himself.

Ever since those early Spanish trips, which were dominated by lazy, corpulent, money-grabbing holiday reps, Brian and Abi had avoided package holidays. Until now, of course. A cruise on the QE2 from Edinburgh to New York, a couple of nights’ stay at the Waldorf and then flying back to Scotland on Concorde. It was a “package”, all right, but one they couldn’t resist. They had steered clear of the reps on the cruise across, but now they couldn’t. Now they were part of a captive audience, with the reps their captors. And one of them – the gobby American – was standing at the front of the coach with a microphone in her hand. Alarm bells were ringing inside Brian’s head.

As the coach moved off, Gobby began her speech. “Well, folks, a big welcome to New York City, my home town.”

“Now, I’ll begin with the bad news. I’m really sorry to tell you that unfortunately we won’t be going to the riverside restaurant, as planned.”

While many of the passengers around them were murmuring their disappointment, Brian looked at Abi and shrugged. “What the fuck?” he mouthed. The restaurant cancelled, like the limo. And again with no explanation. Abi wasn’t happy about it either.

“But please don’t worry, folks,” Gobby continued, “ we have something very exciting for you instead. A journey to a mystery location that has a very special place in all New Yorkers’ hearts. And on our way to it, we’re going to treat you to a tour of the wunnerful, wunnerful Manhattan Island.”

Oh, fuck! thought Brian. We should have just organised a taxi to take us to the hotel.

And so the tour began. As Gobby babbled on, Brian could hear coughing coming from the elderly man seated adjacent to her at the front of the coach. He had often seen the man on the ship, being pushed along in a wheelchair by his wife. He looked very ill. And he coughed a lot. The problem was that here on the coach his coughs were being amplified by Gobby’s microphone. But, rather than show any concern for the poor man, Gobby simply raised her voice each time he had a fit of coughing. This annoyed Brian very much.

“And now on your right we’re coming up to Central Park. It’s the most visited, most filmed and most recognised urban park in the world…”

Brian suddenly thought of Homer Simpson. Bo – ring! he said to himself.

“We’re now on Broadway, folks. The street of dreams. I just love the theatre, don’t you? And that ice-cream parlour on the left is where I always go when I’m on Broadway. It serves the best ice-cream in the world…”

What is it with New Yorkers and ice-cream? Next thing she’ll be telling us her favourite fucking flavour…

“…and my absolute favourite is pistachio…”

Jee – sus!

“And there on the left is the famous Dakota Building. It was at its entrance that John Lennon was gunned down…”

We’ve had the best park in the world and the best ice-cream in the world. Now we’re getting the best fucking celebrity assassination in the world…

“Well, I hope you’ve enjoyed our little tour, folks. Because here we are at the mystery destination. It’s the world-famous Trump Tower, built for the city by my favourite New Yorker, the millionaire, Donald Trump.”

Brian and Abi looked at each other and shook their heads.

“Now, what we’d like to do is take you inside and up to the wunnerful Trump store. You’ll have time to browse around and maybe buy a souvenir or two. But don’t worry about your luggage. Sam here, our wunnerful driver, will stay with the coach until we return. He can’t park here in front of the building, though, so he’ll move the coach round to the side of the building. Feel free to leave anything you don’t want to carry and just follow us for a wunnerful retail experience.”

Brian and Abi hung back until all the other passengers had trooped out of the coach – all, that is, except the still coughing wheelchair man, who, it seemed, would be keeping Sam company for the duration of the “wunnerful retail experience”. Then they, too, stepped out of the coach to be confronted by the glistening golden monolith that was Trump Tower.

Faux gold, thought Brian. Brash and cheap and nasty, just like its creator and namesake.

When they entered the building’s lobby, they could see that the line of passengers, with the two reps, Gobby and Blondie, at its head, was already heading for the escalator. All the female passengers, even wheelchair man’s wife, looked eager to indulge in this unexpected shopping treat; their male companions simply looked resigned.

Brian came to a stop. “I don’t know about you, hen, but this carry-on is no’ for me. I didn’t come to New York for this shit.”

“Me neither,” said Abi.

“Look, why don’t we just take a seat here in the lobby and wait for them to come back down?”

“Sounds good to me. After all the hanging about to disembark and the wait for the coach and then listening to that godawful woman’s voice on the bus, I’m knackered already.”

So they sat down and waited and people-watched in the busy lobby. But after about an hour they were restless. They were also growing hungry.

“They can’t be much longer, can they?” Brian asked himself rather than Abi. “Unless there’s a restaurant up there, of course, and they’re all having lunch.”

Abi grimaced. “Or they’ve already left by another exit. She didn’t explain where the bus would be when they were ready to go.”

“Oh, fuck,” Brian swore softly. He was beginning to panic now.

Abi recognised that look of panic. “Listen,” she said, taking his arm, “let’s wait just a wee while longer and then decide what to do. We’ll be fine.”

Then they both saw her. It was Blondie on her own, stepping off the escalator and heading for the exit. She seemed to swank rather than walk across the lobby. A small, gift-wrapped box dangled by its string from her right-hand. Every few moments, she looked at the box to admire it, to be reassured by it. It was something precious, a treasure. And each time she was reassured by the treasure, a smug grin broke across her normally frosty face.

Suddenly, it all became clear to Brian.

“Bastards!” he hissed.

He was angry. He became even angrier when he thought of the sick wheelchair man spending all that time cooped up in the coach with a stranger in a strange city.

He stood up, saying, “It’s a fucking scam, Abi! Now I know why there was no limo and why the so-called riverside restaurant was cancelled – if we were ever going to go there in the first place. That pair of greedy gits have done a deal with the Trump fuckers. They drag us here straight off the QE2 to spend our dollars on some Trump tat and they get rewarded for it with some nice gifts of their own to take home with them. A fucking scam! C’moan, let’s go and find the hotel ourselves. The luggage will just have to catch up with us.”

There was no argument from Abi. She knew Brian had a sixth sense about this sort of thing; he was usually right. “You’re on,” she replied, getting to her feet as well.

It felt good to be out in the sunshine. New York also felt good – alive and vibrant and exciting. They went left, glad to be leaving Trump Tower behind, but not sure where they were going. The street plan they had brought with them was back on the coach.

Brian was calmer now, smiling. “The Waldorf can’t be far away,” he said. “Why don’t we try an old Navaho Indian trick and ask a passer-by?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Brian. A pair of tourists obviously lost. Probably the quickest way to get ourselves mugged.”

“Well, we could ask a policeman or just hail a cab.”

But Abi didn’t hear Brian’s further suggestions. Having spotted a stationary public service bus up ahead, she had sprinted away and was now climbing into the bus.

“That’s my girl,” Brian laughed in admiration and hurried to catch up with her.

Moments later, Abi emerged from the bus with a big smile on her face. “The driver says the Waldorf is within walking distance – only two blocks away. And we can’t miss it. It’s a New York landmark, apparently!”

Sure enough, within ten minutes they were in the hotel’s graceful reception area, being checked in by a very helpful young lady, to whom they had related the sad tale of Trump Tower and the missing coach. Another ten minutes and they were being whooshed up in the lift to their suite on the 30th floor by a white-gloved bellhop. And half-an-hour later, a waiter, also white-gloved, was wheeling in a trolley on which was laid out a selection of sandwiches, together with a bottle of California Chablis in an ice-bucket.

They were enjoying the sandwiches and wine while observing the constant swarms of ant-people and streams of Dinky traffic making their way along Park Avenue many feet below. Then the phone rang. Brian answered it to hear the voice of the same young lady who had checked them in.

“The coach from your travel agency has turned up, sir,” she said, almost conspiratorially, “and the representative is not very happy, I’m told. She appears to have spent a long time at Trump Tower looking for you and your wife. Anyway, I wonder if you could make your way down to the lower basement to identify your luggage so that it can be unloaded from the coach? We’ll get someone to bring the cases up to you once you’ve done that.”

“Yes, I’ll come down right now, thanks very much,” Brian replied. “And thanks also for the heads-up.”

“You just stay here and relax,” he said to Abi. “It doesn’t need the two of us.”

When he came out of the exit of the lower basement, Brian could see the coach a few yards away. As he walked towards it, a dozen or so passengers were making their way inside. Every one of them glared at him; he was the bad boy, of course, the culprit. He shrugged. Then Gobby stepped down from the coach. Scowling, she headed straight at him and clipped his shoulder as she passed.

“Asshole,” she hissed under her breath.

Brian grinned. Not only had he upset Gobby, but he had also already composed in his head the formal letter of complaint he would be sending to her employers to expose her grubby little scheme.